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<title>The Thunder To His Lightning by Pink_and_Velvet</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674582">The Thunder To His Lightning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet'>Pink_and_Velvet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Duran Duran, The Power Station (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Feels, Band Break Up, Band Fic, Canon nods, Established Relationship, M/M, Men Crying, Moving On, Pining, breakdowns, careless memories, previous relationships, serenades, solo work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:01:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>769</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674582</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He was warned, letting him slip through his string worn fingers would be the worst thing he could do. And now he had truly <em>found the hard way, that love is not what it seems.<em></em></em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andy Taylor/John Taylor (Duran Duran)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Thunder To His Lightning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Last night’s wave of Andy appreciation ended up with this angsty little fic. I see some potential with it, that perhaps could be fleshed out to show more points in the Power Station timeline. If anyone is interested; let me know what you think. I believe that these two are crazy misunderstood, not just with their sound but their relationship really hasn’t aged well. I’m thinking, for a Power Station nut’s sake, that I’d like to shed some light on this era. The Taylors deserve it. ❤️⚡️</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>London, 1987</em>
</p><p>Hunching over, he contorted his heavy body into the far end of the sofa and clutched his pillow tight. His knees were buried under his chin, shoulders slumping, as he fingered the needle and let rip.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>I’m coming home, on the Night Train. I’m coming to your bed.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Before he could comprehend it, make heads or tails of the lyrics; they were consuming him. Running hot through his aching veins, targeting his heart and locking it in a vice. Twisting it in said vice. Penetrating deep into his soul and searching it, the black that stained it, running hot with guilt and disappointment in himself.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Life Goes On. Goes on and on.</em> </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>He was determined to make it through. He owed it to him and to himself, whether he could take the pain or not.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>On and on.</em> </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>He was shaking, shoulders quaking in that way that voiced how close his floodgates were to bursting their banks. He was biting into his bottom lip, gnawing away at it to the point of drawing blood. His eyes were wide, fixed on nothing in particular so further he drifted; slightly swaying, with a hand coming to his chest and resting right above his aching heart.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Through the Broken Window, there’s a broken dream. Had to learn the hard way, love is not what it seems.</em> </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Those lyrics were heartbreaking, full of intense emotion that had him surging through one track and tearing up through the next. The LP was incredibly well put together, the perfect mixture of ballads to tear a whole through his heart and poorly patch it up with his memories. His memories of them together, running wild on stage after stage; shredded guitar and blaring bass. What more could he have wanted?</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Don’t Let Me Die Young, I’m begging you.</em> </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Another track flowed through, hitting him right out of left field. He was trembling now, literally along with the song, letting it fuel every emotion and yank tirelessly on his heartstrings. His tears were coming in streams now, torrents, overcome with guilt. How he had been overshadowed, over looked and ignored. Musically buried for years, creativity made to suffer and talent punished: made to take that back seat in the band they both should’ve called home.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Though I can’t explain, that I’m going insane. I need you so, I’m Tremblin’.</em> </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>It was awful when he really thought about it. When his mind was clogged with images of him, smile beaming bright because his amp was hooked up and sparks were flying from his strings, radiating a confidence and joy that never really was seen elsewhere. If he wasn’t onstage, if he wasn’t playing live.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>I’ll never let you go. Stand by me. Hold me close. I love you so.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>He didn’t even bother with tissues, letting the droplets attack the satin he wore; staining it with his perplexed emotions and careless memories, inking their way into the fabric worn with little pride now that he was alone. He let his cushion take his wrath, now firmly moistened from the flow; head buried into it and shoulders jerking uncontrollably.</p><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Put your hand on my heart. Swear to me, when you say.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p>He was determined to make it through. He owed it to him and to himself, whether he could take the pain or not.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>I Might Lie, when I look into your eyes. I could love you till forever. When I look into your eyes.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>Thunder</em> was beautiful. <em>Thunder</em> was full of heart, rhythm and soul. A passion, a fire that Duran, that John himself, had watched be dimmed and dimmed for years. Be extinguished, burnt out by the synth-fuelled blaze that was the haze of the decade. The craze, what the zeitgeist seemed to demand from them. John couldn’t pin point exactly which track it was that had made him crumble, which one had wrecked him, which one had torn his apart at the seams but that didn’t matter.</p><p> </p><p>What mattered now, for John at least, was clinging to Andy and his music in any way that he could. Living it, breathing it. Soaking up that spark, riding out his fire. His storm, John scoffed, wondering just where the thunder to his lightning was right now. Where he was playing. How his album was doing. How Andy himself was keeping.</p><p> </p><p>He wouldn’t be coming home to John on his <em>Night Train</em>. He wouldn’t be coming to John’s bed. On some absurd level, sobbing uncontrollably as he forced himself to believe it, John knew and was beginning to accept that. <em>Tremblin’</em> just like Andy said he would.</p>
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